“This is a hat I’ve been wearing a lot lately.  It was from my grandmother, who loved life ‘til the end.” There are also some cryptic words about Kaiser Wilhelm in her notebook, but for the life of her, she can’t remember why she wrote that down, what they related to in her classmate’s life, or was it her grandmother’s life?  It must have been her grandmother’s life. 

She scribbled these notes last Wednesday night in her Jewish writer’s class, trying to make sense of an assignment they all were given, to bring an object to class that had some special relevance to their lives, that would tell their peers something about themselves that might not be apparent, at least, not as yet. Her classmate also described the hat as “cozy,” and then refused to tell why she had been wearing the hat a lot lately. 

What a challenge!  She wonders if this is a woman whose family, like her, doesn’t like her to write about them. Her family, all of whom are readers of fiction, do not like her stories.  “This is not the true story,” they cry.  “It didn’t happen like that,” they complain. “Don’t put me in your story,” her sister warns her. She is angry with her about her writing, and she has not shown her anything she’s written since February.  She hasn’t shown her parents anything she’s written this year, the first year of her adult life - that is, the first year since she’s known what she was going to do when she grew up.

She did give one of her stories to her aunt, who wished to perform it at a dinner party in a Chinese restaurant after her nephew’s bar mitzvah in San Diego. And the response was predictable - from her sister, sneers, “Well, this is your life you are writing about, not mother’s,” from her father a doting “well, look what my daughter has accomplished” (not sure he heard or would remember any of the story at all, having consumed a great deal of scotch), and from her mother, constant interruptions - “That never happened.” “I scrubbed the stairs when I was  six years old.” “That isn’t true.” - until her aunt, somehow having the chutzpah threatened her mother “Hilda, stop interrupting, or I’ll stop reading the story.” The rest of the dinner party, including the performer, loved the story and did not care how close or far it was from the “real” truth.   

There is another family story about Kaiser Wilhelm, who seems to have known a lot of grandmothers.  This concerns her ex-husband ‘s grandmother, who was born in Bohemia and claimed that, as a young woman, she had been a maid in Kaiser Wilhelm’s household, and on one occasion, had danced with the Kaiser. When she knew her, the grandmother was already very old, and was the first person she ever saw die.  Actually, she was the first person she ever saw dead. 

It’s funny how in her own family, she has never been to anyone’s funeral, much less seen anyone die, and while she was married to Harvey, she sat with two women who died while she was there in the room with them.  It may be that she lived near his family, and he was the youngest grandchild, while they lived very far away from her family, and she was the oldest grandchild. Her husband would tease his grandmother “Were you out polivitzen, Lizzie?” he would ask her, as she labored her bulk up the stairs -  and she would giggle and blush, and hide her false teeth behind her hand, and playfully tap him on the arm, as if with a flirty fan, as if she were dancing with Kaiser Wilhelm, as if she were again the charming, pretty 16-year old kitchen maid.  

At the end, she was light as a feather, and Harvey would carry her upstairs as easy as you please.   Everyone took care of her, her household chores, her gloriously riotous multicolored rosebushes growing up half a dozen different trellis formations, climbing up strings zigzagged against the back wall of the garage, until she died at home.  She had been in a coma for several days, breathing very quietly, and a family member or two was with her all the time. 

She would come on Saturday and Sunday with her husband, and would take turns spelling his mother and Aunt Pat and Uncle Mickey at the death watch.  

She was alone with Lizzie when she died.  The room was dark, and she lay on a single bed, her arms had been arranged crossing her diminished bosom, and her thin pure white hair had been cut very short to make it more manageable for her caretakers. And she sat there with her for what seemed like hours, holding her hand and watching her breathe, just watching her breathe, watching her breathe, and finally realizing she wasn’t breathing anymore.   And still she sat there, holding her waxy hand, and gazing upon her waxy face, until it was clear to her Lizzie wasn’t going to breathe again. And then she went downstairs and told the rest of the family, “She isn’t breathing anymore.” And they all breathed a sigh of relief. And quiet reigned for a long time, until someone said “We’ll have to call the doctor.” 

She would like to go like that herself. No muss, no fuss, no hospital, no tubes, no medication, no great sorrow, no weeping and wailing. Just “It was time.” And “She lived a good life.” And “she loved life ‘til the end.”  She has no hat from that grandmother that she could put on her head to keep her cozy. She has nothing from that grandmother at all, except the memory of a life that slipped away so easily, as easy as breathing and then not breathing.